And No One Heard a Thing…
Post by EarlyBeginner » Mon Feb 17, 2025 5:00 pm
The following is non-fiction, but true memory of mine:
I had my own small sleeping room as long as I remember, my totally dark all night masturbation cave. There were window shutters outside closed every evening. So really total darkness. There was another bed at the opposite wall, very close. For a sibling that never arrived I suppose today. When I was about 7 my mother slept in it sometimes because my father snored I think. The following is a little mysterious for me: I remember several evenings with my mother there, and I had not yet had my little all evening job. But it was the case.
Falling asleep without the job impossible. I must have the “sweet itch” and eliminate the stiffness. So I produced some little acoustic entertainment for her. With a mixture of reason and childlike naivety. Undercover now, different to the other evenings, but the pajama pants must go down a bit also now. The reason: The pink hypersensitive little head of the weener showed up in the foreskin a little when stiff, and touching any fabric was very painful. Now the weener stood parallel to the lower abdomen, no problem. I pulled the pants down in a quick motion. Unsuspicious, it could have been any body motion.
Next part of the acoustic entertainment: A very fast rhythmical tiny scratching noise, my fingers slid back and forth at the bottom of the blanket. Childlike carelessness. Supplemented by intermittent breathing. Finished with a gasping and deep breathing. Scratching finished. Little noiseless break. Then pants up again.
A certain sequence of noises. Undoubtedly my mother listened to it with “fascination” several times. More probably with some horror. That happened 1960, still an era of unenlightenment and puritanism. Her question in the silence “Are you playing with your weener?” is still sounding in my ears today. Just in my act that time. Followed by relatively mild scolding. Lucky little boy. You can read different cases. I did the obvious thing after that, building a little masturbation tent with my left hand. But the other little noises….
Another repeated situation followed, but she never said anything anymore. I intend to ask here on this site soon: “What did your mother know?” What do you think? Sometimes I have fantasized to ask my mother nowadays, but now it is too late. And who of us dares this question?
The other situation was between my ages of about 8 and 14. Annual visit to relatives in German Democratic Republic. They were very hospitable and improvised a lot. My mother and I could sleep in their sleeping room, share the double bed. The boy from the West was an avid secret masturbator in several adventurous situations.
At my age of 14 I lay beside her in the darkness every evening as usual those summer days. And in the silence. There was a virtual angles’ choir in my head. Bad angles, singing a shrill chorus of dark pleasure. Chaotic sexual thoughts of a 14 years old, and a shimmering itch in the rockhard penis and deep in the butt already. She was a bad sleeper, I was sure that she was not asleep yet. Nothing to hear from her. I enjoyed that situation, motionless, sometimes half an hour, listening to the angles, letting the movies run.
Then I went over the bridge to danger. Pulling the pants down. Pajama jacket close to the root of the penis. The blanket was the safe wall now to the outer world of danger. But she could lift it with one quick motion, and the scandal would be there. (This never happened). An additional thrill. Another motionless waiting for pleasure and security. To avoid any connection to the short noise of pulling down before. Up to half an hour again.
Then I built the tent and grabbed him. The first three pushes of the foreskin – ahhhh. The sphincters inside contracting in a first semi orgasm already. The angles chorus swelled louder. Stop for some seconds. Then milking quicky and precisely. I wanted to have it immediately. I held him low now, close to the jacket. For shooting not far. The shots hit the jacket hard in highest speed. Angles’ choir of lust maximum loudness. But one question today: How was the control of my breath? I do not know today.
Security waiting time again. Enjoying the post orgasmic waves of contractions and lustful sensation. Then pants up over the jacket. The mess could dry between jacket and trousers over night. Done. My mother knew the lower parts of the pajama jackets hard as card board already….
Source: (138) And No One Heard a Thing… – Onania Masturbator Forum